


Already the World Entire

by RobinLorin



Series: Boyfriend From Gascony [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 09:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1978359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I know your type, d’Artagnan. If you stayed in Gascony, you’d hit your stride within a few years. We don’t have enough excitement for you here.” </i>
</p><p>D'Artagnan gets booted out of Gascony. But nicely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Already the World Entire

**Author's Note:**

> To make things clear: in some branches of Parisian law enforcement the first-year newbies are called “interns.” They’re not unpaid or delegated to coffee runs like American interns. It’s just a snappier way of saying “the new guy.” 
> 
> I also found out that the super hardcore Paris division of police that investigates homicides, kidnappings, drug rings, gangs, robbery, and the protection of minors, is nicknamed “the 36.” How catchy is that? I call for a spin-off. Of, um, the non-existent TV show that I imagine for this fanfiction.

Athos knew he looked like a lovesick schoolboy, but he couldn’t help staring forlornly at his phone.

“If you keep staring at it like that, you’re gonna set it on fire,” said Porthos through a mouthful of gyro.

Athos sighed. “We were supposed to call each other last night. He was too tired.”

Porthos nodded sympathetically and took another bite. “Well, he’s a working man now. He’s worn out from chasing horse thieves and whatnot. They’ve got horse thieves in Gascony, right?”

Athos picked at his own sandwich. He found a stray pickle and offered it to Porthos. “He was on a B&E case this week.”

Porthos, his mouth crammed full of the rest of his lunch, conveyed his astonishment via eyebrow.

Athos admitted, “He was the paperboy.” Lugging around all the paperwork for a case wasn’t quite so glamorous.

Porthos’ eyebrow relaxed, then quirked. _“We all have to start somewhere,”_ it said expressively. Not for the first time, Athos wondered if he needed to find new friends. Surely a talking eyebrow was a sign that he was spending too much time with said eyebrow’s owner.

A sound from below caught their attention. Athos handed Porthos his sandwich. He steadied himself on a chimney and leaned over the side of the roof on which he and Porthos sat. From here, Athos could see the top of their suspect’s head as he clambered out of his second-story window.

“Aramis owes me a tenner,” Athos said to Porthos.

Porthos, who was licking the last of Athos’ lunch off his fingers, grunted and rose gracefully to his feet. “He comin’ this way?”

Athos nodded and signalled for Porthos to take a step back. Though his body was primed for a confrontation, his thoughts kept returning to d’Artagnan. “It was a small team, though. Just two other detectives.”

“Yeah?” said Porthos as a man matching the description on the police bulletin hoisted himself up over the roof. When the man straightened, he found himself faced with two pistols.

“Freeze,” said Athos sharply. The suspect froze.

Porthos took a zip-tie from his belt and cuffed the suspect while Athos kept his gun trained on the man. “You think d’Artagnan got a word in with the lead detectives?”

“No; he probably sat there quiet as a mouse while they talked among themselves,” said Athos. Porthos snorted.

The suspect tried to wiggle away and Porthos clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Hold still, you.” To Athos: “It’s only been two months since he started working there. He’s got time to impress.”

“I haven’t been doing anything,” the suspect said shrilly. “I don’t know what happened.”

“It’s not us you have to convince,” said Athos. “We’re just here for the finder’s fee.” He holstered his pistol.

He heard Aramis’ call and leaned over the edge of the roof again. Aramis had his torso stuck out of the suspect’s window, squinting up at the roof.

Athos didn’t say “I told you so,” but he implied it very loudly.

“I’ll treat you to lunch tomorrow,” Aramis shouted.

“That would be a change,” Athos called back. “Don’t forget your wallet this time.”

“I resent the implication!”

Athos stepped back from the edge. “D’Artagnan’s getting along well with his precinct, I think.”

“Well enough to stay there?” Porthos started leading the suspect to the roof door.

Athos kept his eyes trained on the suspect’s back, ready to react if he caused trouble, but his mind was spinning. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

As it was, a date with d’Artagnan went one of two ways. Either they spent a weekend clinging to each other and measuring every hour before one of them had to leave again, or they talked to a fuzzy video image until one or both of them fell asleep in front of the computer. What he had with d’Artagnan now was barely enough. He needed to see d’Artagnan more than every other weekend and over Skype. His soul ached with the need to feel d’Artagnan in his arms and hear his voice, unfiltered by phone static. Sometimes Athos felt his heart would burst in his chest with wanting.

He thought -- no, he knew -- that d’Artagnan felt the same way. They had talked about seeing each other more often. But in d’Artagnan’s eyes, did that warrant moving to Paris? The frustration of the situation didn’t automatically mean moving thousands of kilometers. Wasn’t it incredibly selfish of Athos to want d’Artagnan to come here?

He knew that partners in relationships had to make sacrifices, but the idea of moving to Gascony nearly had him breaking out in hives. The closest Athos had ever gotten to living in the countryside had been in his childhood home just outside the city, an antique but fully furnished manor with immaculately trimmed lawns.

“Man, you gotta let me go,” insisted the suspect. “I swear, I didn’t see anything.”

“Quiet,” said Porthos. “We’re having an important conversation about long-distance relationships here.”

“Oh, those blow,” said the suspect. “I had one once, with a girl from Spain? Turned out she was a dude. Not, like, in a sex-change way,” he added hurriedly as Porthos’ hand on his neck tightened. “Like, it was a scam. I lost four hundred to that asshole. Bought him some really nice bath salts, too.”

“How disappointing, that your business sense hasn’t improved since then,” said Athos. He banished worry over d’Artagnan from his mind as best as he could and held open the back seat of their car for the suspect.

“I’m telling you, I don’t know anything about any drug deals!” the suspect said hurriedly.

“Since we haven’t actually told you what the police want with you…” The suspect groaned. “...I’m sure they’ll be very interested to hear about your lack of knowledge.”

“I hope your boyfriend dumps you,” the suspect muttered.

 

* * * * *

 

“...So we missed our call last night, and I don’t know if he’s mad or not.” D’Artagnan hurried up the steps of the precinct in the wake of Peychaud, one of the detectives on the B&E case. D’Artagnan’s fellow first-year officer intern, Joan, easily kept pace.  “It’s hard to tell when we’re so far away, you know?”

Peychaud grunted. She might have walked slightly faster.

“And I can’t call him because he might be in the middle of a stakeout,” d’Artagnan continued. “Or a high-speed chase.”

Joan made a skeptical noise.

“He could be,” d’Artagnan insisted as they entered the building.

Peychaud peeled off to the break room, probably to see if anyone had surprised the office with a delivery of pastries. D’Artagnan and Joan settled against their desks, Joan lounging disdainfully against hers. Joan had the air of a catwalk model and the temper of a bear, and she could do almost anything disdainfully.

“With all the stories you tell about your amazing, famous, detective boyfriend, who chases bad guys like James Bond, I almost think you’re making him up,” she said. She waved her hand in the air like a fairy godmother conjuring a boyfriend. “And that does not mean I want to see your thousand pictures of him,” she added warningly when d’Artagnan began to take out his phone. “I already follow you on Instagram; I see too much of him already.”

“I can’t help that he’s so handsome,” said d’Artagnan. “Besides, I have to take advantage of the times when I see him.”

“Handsome? The last five photos of him I mistook for a pile of dog hair clippings.”

“It was windy. His hair got messed up.”

“Were you in the eye of a tornado?”

Peychaud interrupted d’Artagnan’s retort. “D’Artagnan, the captain wants to see you.” She took a bite of a cruller and jerked her head toward the captain’s office. She wandered off again.

D’Artagnan exchanged an apprehensive glance with Joan. He tried to remember anything he’d done in the last few days to merit a one-on-one. Surely mildly disagreeing with a senior detective wasn’t too bad, was it? Did it count if d’Artagnan had called him a stick in the mud with a limited understanding of the changing times?

Captain Wakim looked up when d’Artagnan knocked on her door.

“D’Artagnan, come in. And close the door.”

He obeyed and sat in the single seat in front of the captain’s desk. Like everything else in the department, it was a standby from years past. Its cushion sagged in the middle and the arm coverings had been worn through. He picked nervously at a stray thread.

“First of all, you’re not here for a lecture. Despite your, shall we say, energetic disagreement with Detective Douché yesterday.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” d’Artagnan muttered.

“I understand that your tip helped break the case.”

“I’m familiar with the area,” d’Artagnan said modestly.

Belatedly, he remembered that the area in question was just next to the town’s only gay club. He winced inwardly. Was that the kind of thing people implied to their bosses?

Captain Wakim didn’t blink an eye, and d’Artagnan relaxed. Probably when someone worked in this town as long as the captain had, they got used to the general queerness of the d’Artagnan family. What with Chiara coming out as a girl in seventh grade, Lisabeth getting suspended from school for a week for excessive levels of PDA with the principal’s daughter (while in the principal’s car), and Aurelia’s town-wide Romeo-and-Juliet-and-Juliet drama one summer, the whole town had probably just been relieved that d’Artagnan hadn’t escalated his sisters’ tradition and gone on some kind of Benny-and-Clyde shootout heist with a gay lover.

“It was commendable work,” said Captain Wakim. “Especially for someone just starting out.” She folded her hands on top of her blotter and pinned him with a sharp look. “That’s why I’m offering you a relocation.”

“Captain?”

“I know your type, d’Artagnan. If you stayed in Gascony, you’d hit your stride within a few years. We don’t have enough excitement for you here.”

D’Artagnan felt a flush creep up the back of his neck. “It’s not that,” he muttered.

The captain’s words had a drop of truth in them. At the academy, d’Artagnan had learned so much more than what he was putting to use here. They’d been trained on investigating murders and kidnappings and large-scale robberies; things that would rarely, if ever, happen in this town or even this province. The minor breaking-and-entering had been the highlight of the past two months.

But it wasn’t a thirst for excitement that made d’Artagnan long to put those tests into practice.

He straightened his back and looked directly at the captain. “I know the bigger cases have the biggest fallout for victims. I want to help those people that have been hurt. I learned all this stuff at the academy about helping survivors, but I can’t use it here. I,” he faltered, “I know how hard it is to recover after a crime, even when the case is solved.” He flushed again. “Not that I don’t like it here, captain.”

Captain Wakim regarded him over her desk. “Very well put, d’Artagnan.” She handed him a piece of paper. “Those are the job listings for entry-level officers. You’ll note the top listing.”

The captain had circled the single job opening under “Paris.” D’Artagnan looked at her in surprise.

“How…?”

“I don’t think anyone in this station is unaware of your fixation on Paris, or the reason why,” said Captain Wakim dryly. A smile fought its way to the corner of her lips.  

D’Artagnan ducked his head in embarrassment. She definitely knew about the gay club thing, then.

“If you decide to apply, I’ll provide you with a reference,” she continued. “The deadline is Friday, but the openings go very quickly. You should decide soon.”

Working in Paris. D’Artagnan imagined it. Solving cases with real meaning. Being in an actual city, not a town with more farms than shops. And most important of all, being closer to Athos. Seeing his boyfriend more than twice a week, maybe every day if he wanted to.

“Yes,” he said abruptly. “I mean, yes please, ma’am.”

Captain Wakim nodded, unsurprised, and withdrew a stack of papers from her desk drawer. “This is the application packet. Fill this out and I’ll send your name on today…”

 

* * * * *

 

The shout came as soon as Treville walked into the station, rising over the general dull roar of the bullpen: “Captain!”

He saw Head Detective Bonacieux pop up from her desk and wave a case file at him. He motioned for her to follow him to his office.

First-year detective Grimaud intercepted Treville as he crossed the busy room.

“Sir,” he said nervously, “um, I have a suspect in custody but his legal holding time is ending and I’m not sure if his background check is done?”

Treville’s doctor had told him that shouting was bad for his health. In deference to her medical opinion, Treville refrained from taking the bloody fool’s head off, and settled for an intense glare.

“I only mean, um, I’m just not sure if I can keep him, or if I should arrest him or arrange a bail, or what, um…”

Bonacieux spoke up sharply from behind Treville. “Grimaud, aren’t you paired with Rochefort this week?”

Grimaud’s eyes darted around, looking anywhere but at the combined impatience of Treville and Bonacieux. “Um, yes, ma’a’m.”

“Well find him, then. Don’t bother the captain. Go!” she said when Grimaud didn’t move.

Grimaud scampered off.

Treville kept moving toward his office. “I won’t be sad to see that one go next month,” he said darkly.

“Some just aren’t cut out for the life,” Bonaceiux agreed. She shut the door behind her and sat in one of the two stiff visitors’ chairs. “How did the meeting go?”

“Well enough. We’ve pinched a few thousand from those bastards in the Arts and Sciences Committee.”

“Good to hear we’re demolishing the future generation’s skillset, sir.” Bonacieux laid her files on Treville’s desk. “I have an update on the Rembley case.”

Treville flipped open the top file. As with all of Bonacieux’s work, it was laid out clearly and concisely. “The sister-in-law of the victim?”

“Yes, sir. She admitted to killing her brother-in-law and covering it up. But she claims not to know anything about the missing jewelry case. I’m looking at the wife of the victim for a crime of opportunity. She saw the body and assumed a burglar broke in. She knew the jewelry case was willed to her husband’s children, so she pretended the case was taken in the robbery.”

Treville nodded and handed the files back. “Look into it and keep me updated.”

Bonacieux nodded. “Yes, sir. Oh, and the coffee machine is broken again.” She made a quick exit and closed the door behind her.

Treville sighed. His first moment to breathe all day and the coffee was gone. Ah, well, maybe he’d take a stab at his doctor’s diet advice and just keep to four cups today.

He shook his mouse to wake his computer up. He still wasn’t comfortable with this thing. Where were all the buttons? He missed the comforting blue screen of early computers. Bonacieux assured him that newer models were even more streamlined and thus even more confusing, and that his 2002 rounded-back MacIntosh was practically a souvenir from the dinosaurs. Treville would rather have something from the Palaeozoic era, but needs must.

The computer set off a series of chimes as it belatedly registered all the emails he’d missed. Treville counted about twenty chimes. Not as bad as he’d thought.

He deleted about half the emails and frowned at the rest. One near the top caught his eye: a response to the email he’d sent out last week after Grimaud had handed in his one-month’s notice of resignation. It was from his counterpart in Gascony, of all places. Treville kept in touch with the captain there, for professional courtesy and also for old times’ sake. He would never forget the region that gave him his start as a first-year officer.

He scanned the email.

_Your open entry-level position … promising new intern … Charles d’Artagnan … recently proved instrumental in a case …_

Treville backtracked. D’Artagnan? Surely not.

He pulled up the police database and entered the required fields for a background check. Charles d’Artagnan, eh? Alexandre’s father had been named Charles. Boys in secondary school back then would never be caught discussing something so soppy as baby names, but Alexandre was just the kind of sentimental bastard to give his son a family name.

The result loaded while Treville finished the email. The last paragraph caught his eye.

_D’Artagnan possesses a strong drive. I would refer him to a high-risk unit, although homicide cases are not immediately recommended. D’Artagnan recently lost a family member to homicide. He may experience strong emotions while attached to a similar case._

“Oh no,” muttered Treville.

His computer beeped. D’Artagnan’s twenty-three-year-old face filled the screen before him. There were some changes from the schoolboy Treville had known: the slope of his nose, the slightly darker coloring. But there was no doubt that this was Alexandre’s son.

With trepidation, Treville clicked on “Related Cases.”

And there it was.

_Case: Homicide. Victim: Alexandre d’Artagnan. Involvement: Witness._

“Shit,” sighed Treville. He sank back into his chair, defeated.

Alexandre had died almost a year ago, and Treville hadn’t known. All those years of being chums at school had come to nothing. He had never called Alexandre to reminisce or catch up. He had always meant to. But life got in the way. As it always did.

Now no one would remember their childhood days together except Treville. And soon enough even he would forget, or die, and then no one would know about how they helped each other pick up girls and watched out for teachers while the other smoked a cig behind the gym. Or the time they snuck out at night to drive twenty miles to see a band. Or the time they ganged up on a bully who was picking on the science club.

Or the time that Treville decided he was going to be a cop and tried to convince Alexandre to join up too. Alexandre had laughed and said he came from a long line of farmers, and no one in his family would be caught dead applying to the police academy.

Treville looked at the background check again. Alexandre’s spirit shone out of those young eyes. Even in pixelated black-and-white, Treville could see the strong character in Charles d’Artagnan’s proud chin and squared shoulders.

He glanced back at the email.

_D’Artagnan has already shown commitment to the job and compassion for victims. He recently proved instrumental in a case for which he provided a critical clue. I believe that his burgeoning skills are being wasted in our low-incident zone. I personally recommend him as your new intern._

“Well, Alexandre,” said Treville to his empty office, “Let’s see who gets the last laugh, eh?”

He picked up the phone on his desk and carefully picked out the number listed on the record. If he remembered anything from his time in Gascony, it was that there was likely nothing going on in the local station. Sure enough, a voice answered him within two rings.

“Hello?”

He didn’t sound like Alexandre. The country drawl was the same, though, and Treville found himself relaxing into the familiar accent.

“This is Charles d’Artagnan?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“I’m Captain Treville of the Police Judiciaire of Paris. I received your application today via Captain Wakim.”

There was a stunned, if slightly staticky, silence.

“Oh,” said d’Artagnan. “I, uh, didn’t expect you to call so soon.” There were some muffled sounds as d’Artagnan presumably found a private place to take the call.

“I knew your father. I just heard about his death today. I was saddened to see that you were a witness to his passing.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Your father and I were good friends back in the day, you know.”

“Oh. I didn’t, sir.”

Treville grinned slightly. Making young recruits wait on tenterhooks was one of the few pleasures of his job. “Oh, yes. We spent many of our school days on his farm.”

“He kept the farm until he died, sir.”

Well, that was enough small talk for one day. “I noted that you provided information that helped identify the perp.”

“I, um, yes.”

Catching young recruits off-guard was the other perk of the job. However, d’Artagnan rallied remarkably quickly. “I worked with the detectives on the case to identify the suspect and provide material evidence for his motive, captain.” He was already picking up legal jargon, Treville noted. And he’d added deference to Treville’s title -- not something he’d expected from Alexandre d’Artagnan’s son, in all honesty.

He grilled d’Artagnan on the cases the young man had covered. He went into depth on each -- there were only so many, after all -- and d’Artagnan responded to each question with quick, exact answers.

Which method had the detectives used to collect evidence? Eyeline-based. How would d’Artagnan have done it? Using a grid system. And the interrogations? Casual. What would d’Artagnan recommend? Officers unfamiliar with the suspect -- though, d’Artagnan added, that was a rare thing around those parts.

As they talked, Treville noted d’Artagnan’s obvious passion for the job as well as his frustration at the low case load in Gascony.

“You're used to a slow schedule,” he noted. “What would you contribute to the Paris force after working in such a low-risk zone?”

D'Artagnan launched into a defense. "I know that Paris has a rising crime rate in the past few years. Um, I have a first-hand experience with being affected by a crime, and I know what the victims are going through… I think it positively affects my dedication to solving cases.”

“Beyond the personal,” prompted Treville.

“Right. I mean, obviously, Paris has more crimes that are connected to other perps. Sometimes a crime network expands beyond a single collar, and in those cases a detective has to sacrifice an arrest to find the root of the problem. Atho -- um, I mean, someone I know who works in Paris -- “

Treville felt a deep sense of foreboding. “That wouldn't be Athos of the Musketeers Agency, would it?”

There was some humming and hawing. “Ehrm, yes,” d'Artagnan admitted.

“And how do you two know each other?”

“We met when he was down here for a conference.”

Treville narrowed his eyes. That didn't exactly answer his question. “Continue.”

“Athos told me that a high percentage of the drug arrests are just the casual buyers who don’t know how to hide the stuff. I think if we can convince them to turn on their dealers or be our intel, it would help a lot more than sending the buyers to jail.”

Treville raised his eyebrows. “Hm.”

Treville hung up the phone fifteen minutes later, but not before setting a date for a formal interview with d’Artagnan. Compared to the other two applicants he was leagues ahead. Despite a few notes about arguments with the instructor, he had overall good marks from the academy. He was obviously passionate about his work, and he displayed an aptitude for learning quickly and on the job.

Still, there was that slip about Athos...

Treville prodded at his computer until Internet Explorer showed the search engine. He typed “Charles d'Artagnan” into Bing and clicked on the first Facebook link that appeared. He scrolled down the list of statuses and felt the foreboding in his gut churn into a ball of resignation.

_Weekend trip to see the babe!_

_Off to paris <3_

_Missing my heart #longdistancesucks_

And then there were the fifty or so photos of Athos.

The man looked more content than Treville ever remembered seeing him. There were pictures of him eating ice cream with his arm around d’Artagnan, for Crissakes.

“Holy mother of fuck,” groaned Treville. This was just what he needed. Why did everything come back to the bloody Musketeers Agency?

He sat back and reviewed the facts just like with any case. He weighed the pros and cons. Good young cop with an overprotective, moody boyfriend.

Technically, it wasn't fraternization. And if anyone complained about it he could remind them of his personal policy: Talk shit, get hit with sensitivity training.

His sighed and rubbed at the headache forming above his eyes. He was going to do this, wasn’t he.

 

* * * * *

 

“Athos!” Treville’s bellow sounded through the bullpen. Detectives barely glanced up, used to the captain's loud summonses.

Constance gave Athos a teasing look. “What have you done now?”

Athos demurred. “If we were in trouble, Aramis would be getting called.” He left Constance and Porthos to their gossip and crossed to the captain’s office.

He found Treville frowning at his ancient computer. He looked up when Athos made to shut the door.

“No need for that. I only want to talk about the DePoint case.”

“Didn't we close that a week ago?" 

Treville scowled. “Not according to the mayor’s office. It turns out the undersecretary is friends with the perp and he wants a ‘second opinion.’”

“So we’ll give him the tape of his friend admitting to murder, then?”

Treville eyed him sharply. “Jokes, Athos?”

Athos shifted his shoulder in an approximation of an apologetic shrug. “Adding some levity to a bleak situation.”

“Hm, yes, you seem to be in higher spirits recently. You find something new? Different regimen?”

Athos tried not to twitch irritability. Everyone was saying that recently. Had he really been such a moody bas-- he couldn’t finish that question, even to himself. Of course he had been, before d’Artagnan.

“No,” he said impatiently. “The case?”

“Oh, hm, gather your chain of evidence and deliver it to my secretary by Thursday, will you? We need to convince this undersecretary that he shouldn’t spring his friend out of jail.”

“Probably hopeless.” But Athos promised to find the files and send them over.

“Oh, and speaking of the DePoint case,” Treville added as Athos turned to leave, “you might be glad to hear we’re getting a replacement for Grimaud next month.”

“I won’t be heartbroken to see him go,” Athos allowed. After all, Grimaud had almost compromised crucial evidence on that case.

“I’m bringing in an intern for an interview next week. Name’s d’Artagnan. He’s a good lad. A little impetuous, but I think he’ll be a good fit for the department.”

Athos could swear his heart stopped. He stared at Treville. “Is that so,” he said evenly.

Treville looked unconcerned. “It happens he’s from my old region. Gascony. I knew his father, as a matter of fact. You know, I could almost be considered d’Artagnan’s godfather? Funny how life works out like that.”

“Hilarious,” Athos managed. He gestured toward the open door of Treville’s office. “If that’s all…?”

Treville nodded and dismissed him.

Athos could almost feel Treville’s eyes burning a hole in his back. Surely he didn’t know.. Maybe he suspected, but to know… D’Artagnan’s godfather, sweet merciful Jesus.

He passed Constance and Porthos talking at Constance’s desk. When they looked at him, he gritted out, “Coffee” and walked past them. He broke through the front doors of the station and found a nice sturdy brick wall to hold him up.

He needed a drink. He _wanted_ a drink, but he’d stick to coffee. He needed something to distract him. He needed… d’Artagnan.

He pulled out his phone and turned it over in his hand. What would he even say if he called d’Artagnan now? “Sorry to interrupt your work, but I think Treville just gave me the most subtle shovel talk in history"?

What would that mean for them if Treville watched over them like a hawk, making godfatherly noises whenever Athos got too close? Putting them on separate cases? Visiting Athos' house in the dead of night with a bloody horse head?

Somehow, a pertinent thought broke through these clouds of runaway imagination: D'Artagnan was interviewing for a spot in Paris.

Suddenly his thoughts focused on the possibilities, with or without Treville. He could see d’Artagnan every day; they would talk instead of Skype, and touch instead of looking at a screen. They could visit each other without having to worry about a five-hour trip back home.

His breath came fast at the idea of _d’Artagnan_ and _home_ , and somehow there was, in full color and high-definition, the image of d’Artagnan in Athos’ apartment, his things fitting in with Athos’ things, and his clothes in a drawer, and his toothbrush beside the sink.

No, that was too fast, wasn’t it? Normal people didn’t want to move in with each other so soon. But d’Artagnan had been thinking about moving closer to Athos, at least. That was a relief. Athos hadn’t been alone in wanting that after all.

As if he had summoned d’Artagnan with his thoughts, Athos’ phone started playing the Spaceballs theme. Athos smiled on an exhale and answered it without looking. “D’Artagnan.”

“Athos! I wasn’t sure I’d catch you. Listen, do you have time to Skype tonight? Or do you have time now? I have the best surprise!”

Athos leaned his head against the wall behind him. Porthos would give him time. Everything else could wait.

“I have time now. Is it a surprise for you, or me?”

“Both of us. You’ll never believe who called me today...”

Athos closed his eyes and let d’Artagnan’s voice carry him across the country, seven hundred kilometers away. With d’Artagnan’s voice in his ear, the distance seemed to close until Athos could almost feel d’Artagnan next to him, warming his aching heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Oliver Bendorf's "Catch A Body": 
> 
> [...]  
> So maybe it’s, “don’t be afraid.” We can  
> rewrite Icarus, flame-resistant feathers,  
> wax that won’t melt, I mean it, I’ll draw up  
> a prototype right now, that burning ball  
> of orange won’t stop us, it’ll be everything  
> we dream the morning after, even if we fall  
> into the sea—we are boats, remember?  
> We are pirates. We move in nautical miles.  
> Each other’s anchors, each other’s buoys,  
> the rocket’s red, already the world entire.


End file.
